


The end

by tinyniel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Human Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:54:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyniel/pseuds/tinyniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for the season 8 finale. This is my new headcanon.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>It wasn't a big ceremony, not many people were present. There isn't even a body in the casket, a secret only he knows. The rest of them, a handful of people who just happened to be a part of their lives when this happened, don't know the full story. They'll never know the full story.</p>
<p>They wouldn't believe it anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The end

**\- The end -**

 

The graveyard is empty, sun setting behind the trees in the distance. There is a soft wind twirling up the wilted leafs that cover the hard ground, the low rustling the only sound that breaks the eerie silence.

At the far end, a lone, hunched figure stands in front of a new grave. The flowers are still fresh, ribbons on the bouquets trembling in the slight wind. There aren't all that many, and they're small and unremarkable. 

It wasn't a big ceremony, not many people were present. There isn't even a body in the casket, a secret only he knows. The rest of them, a handful of people who just happened to be a part of their lives when this happened, don't know the full story. They'll never know the full story.

They wouldn't believe it anyway. 

The man shivers, turning up the collars of his coat. It's old, worn and has clearly seen better days, and doesn't go with the prim, dark suit underneath. The coat is open, despite the cold, but the jacket is buttoned up, hiding the tail-end of the tie. The coat he could get away with. An inside-out tie might be a little harder to explain.

The man looks almost as old and worn as his coat, the lines of his aged face enhanced by the sorrow etched into his features. His hair is entirely grey, but still remarkably full for someone of his age. It sticks up every which way, another clash with his solemn attire. More than one neighbour looked at him funny today. He couldn't bring himself to care.

He shoves his hands into his pockets, fingers on the left one wrapping around a small object. When he pulls it out, a soft glow lights up his face in the dusk. It's a small, silver-topped glass vial on a plain chain, its content shining a mysterious blue. When he closes his fingers around it, the glow still pierces through the cracks.

He shuts his eyes, letting his mind wander back to the first time he held it. His memory might be failing him, but that moment is still clear as day.

  

The sky had been pitch black, a light drizzle in the air. No moon, no stars, the world perfectly dark and quiet. The two of them sat on the hood of the car, both so much younger. Both covered in cuts and bruises, nursing a beer each. 

They had sat in silence for a small eternity, neither of them saying anything, both too tired for words. Until Dean had coughed.

"Almost forgot." He'd proceeded to thrust his hand into his pocket, retrieving the vial on the chain.

"Figured you might want this." That heart-warming smile of his, the one that made his remarkably green eyes shine.

Cas had taken the vial, stared at it, speechless.

"I mean, this is how you get your groove back, right?" Dean had nudged him, winking. But the smile had left his eyes.

"You did it." Cas had finally found his voice.

Dean had shrugged, gulped down some beer. "Told you I would, didn't I? When have I ever let you- ... never mind." He had tried for a smile again, but this one failed completely.

 

Another long silence had passed between them while Cas stared at the small vial. When Dean finally spoke again, he was being decisively _Dean_.

"What, no thank you?"

"I am very grateful, Dean."

"Can you at least look a little happy about it?" Dean had drained his beer, dropped the bottle. "I just got you an express ticket to home sweet home."

"Heaven is no longer my home."

The words had escaped Cas' lips almost before he knew what he was saying. But once they were out, he knew it was true.

"No?" The tone of Dean's voice had torn Castiel's eyes away from the vial. When he looked over at his friend, he could have sworn he saw hope in his eyes.

"No. It hasn't been for a long time."

Dean had fought very hard to fight back a smile. "You sure, Cas?"

"Yes." Cas had tried to hand the vial back to Dean. "I'd rather be here."

Dean pushed his hand away. "Keep it. You might change your mind."

"I won't."

"Still." Dean patted him on the back. "Keep it. Can't handle that kind of responsibility."

It was another decisively _Dean_ feature. No chick-flick moments. But his smile had given him away.

 

So Cas had kept the vial. Tucked away safely. Sure, he had taken it out sometimes when human life got too much and he wouldn't have minded a quick-fix. He had been two inches away from crushing it once, when Sam had been badly hurt during a hunt and Dean had spent every waking moment by his bed, refusing to eat or sleep until he was sure Sam would be OK.

But, the vial had stayed intact. And Cas had stayed very much human. He had gotten colds, head aches, broken bones, paper cuts. His hair had started greying, long after Dean's, to the latter's great annoyance. Wrinkles started appearing on his face, his limbs started aching when the weather changed.

He had aged. All three of them had, miraculously. The family business had been more or less hung up, Sam taking a more Bobby Singer-approach to it all. And Dean had finally been happy to let someone else save the world, retiring to open up a small auto-shop.

They were happy, despite everything.

 

Sam had passed away two years ago, ironically enough from a heart attack. Dean had taken it surprisingly well, admitting to Cas after a substantial amount of whiskey that he was happy his brother had lived to a ripe old age.

After that it had just been him and Dean. Until a few weeks ago, when Dean had passed away peacefully in his sleep, three months away from his 90th birthday. Cas hadn't even gotten to say 'goodbye'.

 

The sun is gone now, the cemetery completely dark. The wind has picked up, tearing at his coat, biting his nose and cheeks. The vial shines blue through his fingers. Without any more hesitation, he drops it. It lands with a soft rustle in the grass, illuminating the ribbon of the closest bouquet, the words 'from Cas' written across it.

 

"Are you sure you don't want it to say something more." The woman from the funeral agency had put her hand on his arm.

He had shook his head. "There's nothing more to say."

Nothing that would fit on a ribbon, anyway. Besides; no chick-flick moments.

 

He takes one last look around. Pointless, really. Between the darkness, and his appallingly bad eye-sight, he can't see anything. His glasses are at home, on the kitchen counter. They're not part of this ensemble.

In the distance, there's a flash of lightning, followed closely by a rumble of thunder. As if on cue, it starts to rain immediately after. He can't help but smile as another crack of lightning lights up the sky. How fitting that it should end as it began.

He crushes the vial under his heal, watching the soft blue light escape. It engulfs him slowly, and he closes his eyes, drawing a last deep breath as the light surrounds him, fills him. The ringing in his ears mixes with the next rumble of thunder. His vision whites out completely.

  

It's Bobby's house. And every detail is perfect, down to the peeling wallpaper in the hallway and the broken tiles in the kitchen. The desk is littered with books and papers, the frames on the walls are crooked and dusty, the paint on the windowsills cracked.

Except the guy behind the desk isn't Bobby. He's hunched over a book, finger trailing the text as he reads, a glass of brown liquid in his hand.

When Cas takes a step forward, the floorboards creak, just like they used to. The man behind the desk looks up, surprise written on all the lines of his aged face. But the light in his eyes is the same as it's always been.

So is the gravel in his voice when he finally speaks.

"Cas?"

"Hello, Dean."

**Author's Note:**

> This is written through tears and un-beta'd, so any spelling errors are my own and totally understandable ;)


End file.
